Focus
by editor frog
Summary: Revelations" from a single-perspective POV. Read on to find out more...
1. Meeting Raphael

**I've had this one tossing about in my head for a long, long time. It's a look at "Revelations," but entirely from our resident genius's perspective. I sincerely hope you enjoy.**

**A/N: Dialogue that's in bold and italics comes directly from the CM episode "Revelations." Obviously, along with the characters and plot and whatnot, this dialogue is most assuredly not mine. Belongs to people much more creative than me.**

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There are two things that register as soon as my mind claws off the thick dark fog that surrounds it: a bright, blinding light that's hanging just above my head, and the smell of flesh that's been burning too long. My mind swims a little, trying to remember how it is I ended up in a place that would let that smell linger so long.

I blink my eyes, trying to take in the surroundings. Everything's a blur of browns and bright white light. The room won't stop spinning long enough for me to figure this out.

"_**They're gone,"**_ a stiff, formal voice says. It's one I vaguely remember, though right now I can't figure out just where exactly.

I try to pick up my hands to block out the blinding light. They won't move for some reason, neither of them.

"_**Who..who are 'they'?" **_ I ask.

"_**It's just me now,"**_ the formal voice says, as if I should realize who is speaking. Right now I can't even tell if my shoes are tied, let alone recognize this voice.

"_**Who..who are 'you'?" **_I ask, desperate for some answers.

The speaker steps in front of the light, just enough for me to focus on the face. It's one I've seen before…from that house, the one in the corn field…

"_**I'm Raphael,"**_ the man replies, as if this knowledge should be all-too-obvious. I know I've heard that name before…but where?

The smell of burning flesh is beginning to make me queasy. _**"What's that smell?"**_

"_**They're burning fish hearts and livers. Keeps away the devil."**_

As if this explains so much.

"_**They say you see inside men's minds." **_Those sharp blue eyes keep studying me as if I were an insect under a microscope.

"_**I-It's not true," **_ I reply. _**"I study human behavior…"**_

"_**I'm not interested in the arguments of men." **_The man—"Raphael," obviously, but I'm sure that's not his right name—suddenly pulls his hand out of his coat pocket. In it is a revolver, the metal glittering against the blinding light. In his other hand he pulls forth a single bullet.

"_**Do you know what this is?"**_ he asks.

I know exactly what it is. It's a cone of soft lead, jacketed with a brass fitting that contains black gunpowder. However, I do not answer.

"_**It's God's will."**_

Oh, Christ. Now I remember where I've heard the voice before. It's the same one that was on those recordings Garcia pulled off the internet. The one quoting scripture. He called himself "Raphael" then, too. My mind swims back to the first crime scene, at that couple's house. Is the same thing going to happen to me?

"_**You don't have to do this,"**_ I say, hoping somehow I can convince this man not to go through with what he plans to do.

"Raphael" merely shushes me, loads the bullet into a single chamber, spins it, closes it up and levels his so-called 'instrument' of 'God's will.'

A thousand things are running through my mind—the people I love, the places I've been, the things I've not yet done. I'm sure the panic on my face is transparent.

I can hear the hammer of the revolver being cocked.

I can see the barrel of the weapon pointed straight at my forehead—point-blank range.

I can feel the man's determination as he pulls the trigger.

The most glorious sound in existence at that particular moment is the sound of the hammer striking an empty chamber. For a moment, anyway, it seems my life is spared.

But for how long?


	2. Physics and Balance

**Thanks much for the reviews! The story continues...**

**Please see all disclaimers in Ch 1.**

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The single pull on the revolver seems to have satisfied him. He says nothing, but continues studying me as if there is some unspoken quality I possess that prevented the bullet from firing. I too say nothing, but for a very different reason: I'm afraid I might say something to set this guy off.

The incident in the corn field earlier made it completely obvious that this man, our "Raphael," is little more than a mortal being suffering from an extreme case of dissociative identity disorder. There were at least two other 'personalities' there in that field, though who they are I have no idea.

And in the end, it doesn't matter. My hands still won't move. My head is pounding like a Muppet on a drum kit. The room still smells like a thousand fish sticks tossed into a fire, and the nausea is turning my stomach. Out of the corner of my eye I see "Raphael," or whoever he is at the moment, walk over towards a small wooden cot across from the door and lie on it. I can't tell if he's asleep or not.

The nausea and my aching head pull me closer towards sleep, though sleep is both the one thing I need and the last thing I want. If I fall asleep, or pass out, what's to stop this man from trying to bury his 'instrument' of 'God's will' inside my head again?

My head is spinning. The smell. The blinding light. The pounding ache in my temples. I think there's something running down the side of my face, but there's no way to tell what it is without touching it. I pray it's just water pouring from my pores.

"Raphael" doesn't move. My eyes are falling shut, and it's taking more and more strength I don't have to force them open long enough to try and figure out if he's asleep.

There's a thick sound of insects coming from outside. Crickets, maybe. Or cicadas. This is Georgia, so probably cicadas. If there's life outside these thin walls, it hasn't made itself known. At least, not yet.

My head is beginning to droop. _Focus, Spencer,_ I chide myself. _Worst-case scenario, other than you ending up like that couple near Atlanta, is that this guy drives you to the point where you don't __want__ to live anymore. Stay awake. Keep thinking. Learn everything you can, if you want to get out of this in one whole functioning piece._

The rest of me is telling my mind to shut the hell up. My chin drops level with my chest, my hair is hanging over my eyes and blocking some of that god-awful light. My breathing starts to grow shallower and more cyclical, and all I can see is darkness.

--

When I wake up the blinding light is gone. In its stead is sunlight, washing in from the thin, dirty windows like a warm comforter.

The thick fog from last night has vanished. My eyes are wide, open, and clear for the first time in hours. I try to look around the small room as best I can from this position, and I hear nothing behind me.

I'm alone.

This simple thought—_I'm alone_—is enough to give me some hope. For whatever reason, "Raphael" isn't too concerned with leaving me by myself. I start to pick up my hands to brush a stray hair out of my face.

They won't move. I vaguely remember them not moving last night. I look down at my hands, and soon discover the reason why: two steel bracelets, both locked around my wrists.

I pull them towards me, trying to figure out why they won't move off my lap. It's then I see it—there, in the middle, around the chain that links them together, is a thick leather strap that's been stapled to itself. I'm not sure how long the strap is, but it's probably safe to say that the other end is somehow fastened to a crossbar under the chair or to a point in the floor.

However it's done, one thing stands out in my mind: I'm completely helpless. There's no way I can stop "Raphael," or whoever he decides he is at the moment, from shooting me point-blank with that damned revolver—the one with only one loaded shot in it. I can't defend myself, or push him away, or attack him should my life depend on it.

But there's the chair. I look down at my legs. They're not bound, and I still have my shoes. Maybe—just maybe—I can pull the chair out from underneath me. Maybe—just possibly—I can snap whatever's holding down the other end of the leather strap. I have to believe it's possible, because there doesn't seem to be any other options left. Breaking the strap is impossible—it's simply too tough and thick.

I gingerly try to pick myself up and stand on my feet. It doesn't take a second before I'm back on the chair, having fallen on my backside. I try again, hoping this time I can find that center of balance I need to be able to pull the chair out from underneath me.

It doesn't happen. I've forgotten the physics of it—the chair, being of the high-backed variety, would move the center of balance I need to a point that could be reached only if my legs were about six-and-a-half feet tall _on their own._ No matter how many jokes I hear from Morgan about being tall, even he would look at me funny if I stood almost thirteen feet tall.

Desperation is starting to claw at my insides. I try pulling on the strap as hard as I can, hoping I can break whatever's anchoring it. It doesn't work, for two reasons. Besides the fact that whatever's holding it down is both solid and incredibly strong, I can't gather enough strength from my position on the chair to do more than just pull on it. The only thing I could do is wear the strap until it broke, but even that would take about seven hundred years to happen. Bottom line: I'm not going anywhere. No wonder this guy can afford to leave me by myself without much worry.

I sit in my chair—it's _mine_ because I've really got nothing else to call it—and just stare at the simple device that has rendered me both immobile and defenseless. The only thought on my mind at the moment is this: _what am I going to do __now__?_

Before I can puzzle an answer, however, a sharp noise startles me. The door's been thrown open, and the man is back—though right now, I'm pretty sure it's not "Raphael"...


	3. The Man with the Stick

**Thanks for the wonderful reviews--I really enjoy them!**

**Please see disclaimers in Ch. 1.**

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"_**What are you starin' at, boy?"**_ a harsh, cold voice snaps. This isn't the calm voice of aloofness that "Raphael" possessed. It does sound familiar, though. But how can I be absolutely sure?

"_**You're not Raphael,"**_ I say. I could put my foot in my mouth for stating such an obvious fact.

"_**Do I look like Raphael?" **_His eyes are what strike me. "Raphael's" eyes were studious, always searching. These eyes are cold, unbending—as if I were a target locked in one of Hotch's confounded sights.

I could really use some water. I feel like I haven't had a sip in days.

This new entity—_dissociative personality_, I tell myself—walks over to the small stove and drops an armload of wood near it. I try to sneak a glance at what this 'person' is up to, and I can just see him poking at something on the top of it. It's more than likely that these are the fish entrails that "Raphael" spoke of, the ones that apparently 'keep away the devil.'

I don't know about the devil, but I can tell you the next time I see a fish, I'm going to lose it. The smell is still horrible, but it's getting weaker as time passes. It's more than likely I'm just getting used to it.

What strikes me is just how little I really know these 'people.' Physically, 'they're' all the same person, but the 'entities' that live within that one shell are vastly different. "Raphael" is more level and patient; perhaps this one is as well?

"_**Thank you for burning those,"**_ I say, trying to keep my voice level and calm. Better to try that than freaking out, which will get me nowhere. All I get for my effort is a dark look—one that could split me in two if it really wanted to.

"_**Keeping us safe," **_I hastily add, trying to backtrack onto safer ground.

"_**Don't lie to me." **_

Oh, Christ. Need to keep him appeased. Making him angry isn't gonna help.

"_**I would never lie to you." **_At least, I need him to believe that.

"_**You're a liar."**_

It's not working. Damn it. _**"I'm not a liar."**_

Those eyes narrow, like two small slits of judgment just waiting to be meted out. _**"Lyin's a sin."**_

"_**I'm not a liar," **_I hear myself reiterating. In all honesty, though, I really don't think this guy cares. _He _thinks I'm lying, so therefore I _must_ be lying. Simple as that. It's either all black or all white with this one.

The next thing I know my right foot is being lifted off the ground. I can only stare as this man picks it up, pulls off my shoe, removes my sock, and tells me, _**"This'll be over quickly if you just confess your sins."**_

I look this man straight in the eyes. _**"I'm not a sinner." **_

The 'look' is back—the one from earlier, when I felt like he was going to kill me with his eyes. If what I said reached his ears, he's not showing it. In fact, he's lifting my foot higher…and now there's a thick branch in his hand…oh, no, for the love of God, he's not really going to…oh, my God, yes, he _is_…

"_**A-and the Lord spake unto Moses, and said: You shall be Holy; for I, the Lord your God am Holy." **_I have absolutely no idea where _that_ came from, but at least he's looking at me and not my feet.

"_**You know Leviticus." **_It's more of a statement than a question, but it's a surprised statement nonetheless. Good. This could work.

"_**I know every word of the Bible," **_I tell him. This time, it's no lie. I do. Hell, I could recite the Torah and the Qur'an too, if it'll get me out of this chair. _**"I can recite it for you."**_

The 'look' is back. It's there with a huge wash of determination. _**"Devil knows how to read too."**_

Jesus. There's no convincing him…or is there?

"_**I'm not a devil. I'm not a devil—I'm a man," **_I hear myself saying, almost as a mantra. But who am I trying to convince? A seriously deranged and sadistic individual or someone who thinks he's a messenger of God? At this point, I'm almost trying to convince myself—after all, if I can make _myself_ believe it, maybe, just possibly, I can make this man believe me too. _**"My name is Spencer Reid, and I have a mother, and a father, and they taught me the Bible. Just…just let me recite the Bible for you…" **_I say, my voice trailing. There's no way in Hell this guy's gonna believe me, no matter what I tell him. His mind is made up.

"_**Time to confess, Spencer Reid,"**_ I hear him say just as the branch connects with the sole of my foot.

The scream I hear is so loud and high-pitched it's hard to believe that it's mine. Yet, there it is—my foot is in agony and my dry throat is getting rawer by the second. _**"Confess,"**_ the crazed man insists.

No. I can't play into that part of his fantasy. If I do, it'll kill me for sure. _**"I don't have anything to confess,"**_ I insist, my voice growing smaller as the pain intensifies.

The second stroke to my foot is just as painful as the first. Another strangled scream escapes, falling on deaf, uncaring ears.

"Confess."

"I'm innocent." The third stroke tells me he certainly doesn't believe _that._

"Confess."

I can't take another stroke, another searing pain to my foot. I'm pretty sure something's broken down there.

"I can't confess to what I haven't done." I'm amazed that made it out of my mouth, as sore and desperate as I am.

The man lowers the branch, but it doesn't hit my foot. I hear a low _thunking _sound as it falls to the floor, connecting with the worn wooden floorboards beneath us. He drops my foot, and I can hear another painful scream escape as the tender sole hits the rough wood under it. My chest is rising and falling, and ragged breaths are drawn in on a frantic cycle. It's taking a lot for me to not cry, but I can't afford to show this man any more weakness than I already have. I know that it's often believed that sin is a sign of weakness, and I can't have him seeing that.

What's odd is that he's staring at me, with those studious eyes. The cold, abusive man is gone; the brooding, scholar-like one has returned, I think, if only for a moment.

I turn my eyes up at him, trying to hold his gaze. _I'm a human being,_ I want to scream at him as loud as I can. _A human being who hasn't done anything to deserve this…_

Before I can voice these words, however, the man turns on his heel and strides out the door. The _slam_ that follows is deafening, and I wince in even more pain. Then I look around again.

I'm alone. This time, however, there is no hope of escaping. Even if I could somehow manage to get free, my foot is in such horrible condition that I couldn't manage to run a single step. I'm sure I could barely walk.

The more immediate question is this: will he come back?

Furthermore: 'who' will I be dealing with when he _does_?


	4. Meeting Tobias

**Another piece I hope you'll enjoy. Please be sure to read Ch. 3 as well!**

**Please see disclaimers in Ch. 1.**

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The hours stretch into eons. The warm, pale sunlight is slowly replaced by nightfall, and still 'Raphael'—or whoever the hell he was when he broke my foot—hasn't returned.

Have I been left here to die?

_Focus, Spencer,_ I tell myself harshly. _He's coming back._

Or is he?

_Enough. Focus on what you know. Focus on using it to get out of here._

Okay. Here's what I know so far:

The unsub—I have to go back to that term because I'm not really sure how else to describe him—clearly suffers from an extreme case of dissociative identity disorder. There's at least two different identities present, though I could swear there was a third in that corn field.

Religion is a key for this man. One of the identities is fixated on 'God's will' and the other seems to have a fixation on sin and the devil. (The smell of the fish entrails has begun to dissipate, though I'm not quite certain if that's because I'm now inured to the stench or because they've finally burned away.)

Both identities have a predisposition to violence, but they use it as an extension of their religious belief. I already know there have been at least two murders committed by this man because of it, and the earlier displays with me were not exactly promising. (My head's still a little sore and my foot is doing a fantastic job of taking my mind off of the head injury.)

I know from earlier that this particular type of unsub will not stop what he's doing unless someone stops him. Bottom line: no matter how long it takes, he'll wait me out until I 'confess' to something, no matter how small, and then kill me for it. (That is, unless the Russian Roulette kills me first.)

My teeth begin to chatter a bit, and it's aggravating my headache. The temperature feels like it's dropped about twelve degrees, and even though this is the Deep South, it's still February. My legs are beginning to tire from being forced into one position for so long, and I really want to just stand up and work the aches out of them.

Just then the door opens. I'm almost afraid of who's on the other side of it, and I can feel myself flinching slightly.

The scene before my eyes is somewhat bizarre: the same man who leveled a revolver to my head and managed to torture me is staring at me, looking as if he owes me something. In his hands is a skinned animal of some sort, and the thousands of connotations _that_ has are not lost on me. Will _I_ be the next thing he slaughters?

"_**You need to eat."**_

I have to admit, that was the _last_ thing I thought he'd say. What strikes me is his voice—unlike 'Raphael' or the entity from before, this person has a soft, almost childlike voice. His eyes and expression match this—they're soft too, and I think there a sign of caring behind them.

"_**What's your name?**_ I ask. Better to have names for these 'people' than just guessing about them.

"_**Tobias." **_I remember that name. That was the one JJ and I met in the house, before I got a look at that computer room…

"_**Tobias,"**_ I repeat, letting the name roll around on my tongue. _**"Who was here before?"**_

"_**Probably my father."**_ Okay, _now _we're getting somewhere. I only just start to ask what 'his father's' name is before 'Tobias' gaze stops me. His face is overflowing with fear and pity—but is it for _me_?

"_**I'm sorry if he hurt you,"**_ 'Tobias' adds. Jesus. If I look bad enough to get sympathy from this guy, I _must_ be in bad shape. It takes a minute for me to notice he's staring at my foot—the one that's bare and throbbing in agony.

I start to say something, but again the look on this man's face stops me. Unlike 'Raphael,' who looked calm but thoughtful in a studious sort of way, or the man with the stick who was irate, absolute in his conviction, and determined, 'Tobias' seems like he's trapped in a world where pain and sorrow are a constant.

The next thing I know he's pulling off his belt. Dear God—is this 'person' going to beat me too?

However, instead of hitting me with it, he holds it in one hand and grabs hold of my arm in another, forcing the sleeve up as far as it will go.

"_**What are you doing?" **_I ask, almost a plea.

He doesn't have to answer. It's obvious the minute he loops the belt around my arm and begins to tighten it, making a makeshift tourniquet. _**"It helps,"**_ he says gently, as if to reassure me.

The sight of him pulling a vial and a hypodermic out of his coat pocket is most definitely _not_ reassuring. And now he's prepping the needle…

Of all the times I want something to break, now would be it. I want my wrists to break, so I can get out of these damned restraints. I want the restraints to break, so I have some sort of chance of getting the hell out of here. I want the needle to break in two, rendering it useless. I want the vial to break, so there's not a second round of this…

"_**Please,"**_ I can hear myself begging him. I try pulling my arms away from his needle, but his grip and the restraints are much too strong. _**"Please, I don't want it, I don't want it…"**_

"_**It helps,"**_ again reassuringly. I'm not comforted by it. My eyes can't leave the needle. _It doesn't help,_ I want to cry out. _It doesn't…_

He shoves the point into my veins, and pushes the plunger. It takes a few seconds, but the wave of _whatever-it-is_ is coursing through my bloodstream, working its way to my fingers, my toes…for a minute, it's as if I can't feel the searing pain in my foot, the dull ache in my head, the cramps in my legs and arms. The feeling runs behind my eyes, through my nose, into my…into my…


	5. Mom?

**For those of you following me, I'm trying to 'fill in' some of those gaps we had--you know, the ones where we had to see what 'everyone else' was doing. I hope you like what I think happened.**

**Please see disclaimers in Ch 1.**

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Shuffling. There's something shuffling just near me. When I open my eyes the room isn't the small, dark, brown shack I was being held in.

Have I escaped? Did someone find me?

Then there's the voices. I know those voices…

One of them gets louder. It's a voice I haven't heard in _years…_

I walk in, and there's my mom. Something's bothering her…

When I turn my head, the source of the shuffling becomes clear. A man I no longer acknowledge is tossing things into that worn leather suitcase of his. He's snapping at Mom; something about not eating or not taking a bath. I've noticed she's been getting a bit lax too, but she'll just snap out of it…

The words are all fuzzy, like no one can speak clearly. I can see Mom looking like she wants him to stay, or at least settle things before he goes. I strain to hear what she's saying, and I can almost make out parts of it.

She's asking him to take me with him, 'just for a little while.' I remember looking at Mom when she said that, wondering if she knew that things were worse than I thought then.

I remember the bastard telling Mom that 'he couldn't.'

"_**You're weak,"**_ she fires at him.

What was amazing to me then is that he didn't disagree. He picks up his suitcase, tells me 'good-bye,' and then leaves.

I knew it then. I was ten years old, and I knew it then. He wasn't coming back. He didn't care. Whether he didn't care about Mom, or about me, or both, I've never really been sure, but I knew deep down that it would be the last time I saw him.

Mom's standing there, looking at me. It's odd because my perspective's changed—I'm about a good two feet shorter than normal. _**"I'm not weak,"**_ I hear myself say. Did my voice get higher?

Mom agrees, and the last thing I remember is giving her a hug.

"_**I'm not weak,"**_ I repeat. I repeat it over and over, as if I'm reassuring her that things will be okay. Maybe I'm just trying to reassure myself.

"_**I don't give a damn if you're weak or strong,"**_ a cold voice snaps. My eyes open a little, and Mom's bedroom is gone. She isn't anywhere…where'd she go?

"_**Yell all you want, boy,"**_ the voice says tauntingly. _**"Ain't nobody gonna hear you where you are."**_

He actually yells at the top of his lungs, as if to prove this point. He's right—after the third or fourth scream, _someone_ would have come running.

By then I'm awake, or back to reality, or whatever the hell it's called. In any case, I'm looking around again, and there's the 'man with the stick,' 'Tobias's' father, apparently. He tosses more fish entrails onto the stove and inhales the scent. My God, I want to throw up.

My head is pounding. My foot is screaming. I ache all over. I would like nothing more than to just lie down, even if only for a minute.

"Um…" I say, hoping to catch this guy's attention. I don't dare use a name—I'm pretty sure the one standing in front of the stove is the one who's name I _don't_ know.

"What?!" That voice again—the one that could snap me in two.

Do I really want to go through with this?

"I, ah…"

"What do you want, you sniveling brat?"

Oh, Christ.

"N-nothing…"

"Liar."

Is it written on my face? I look over at the wooden cot, thinking for a moment how comfortable it must be. It has to be better than this chair…

"You ain't going anywhere," the man says flatly. "Less, of course, you're ready to confess…"

I shake my head. My breathing is getting more ragged again. I think I might pass out…

"Always the same," he snaps. "That son of mine…don't know what that boy was thinkin'…"

The smell is everywhere. It's in my hair. It's on my face. It's in my clothes. I'm pretty sure I can even _taste_ it, and it's horrible.

I glance over at the door. He's left it open, just a little. I lean back in the chair. Maybe I can tip myself over towards it…

The first attempt gets me nowhere. I barely move the chair in the direction I want.

The second attempt is promising, though it doesn't tip me.

The third try is the charm. I manage to fall over…and end up staring straight into an irate face.

"Didn't I _tell_ you you weren't going anywhere, boy?!" he screams. My eyes are darting around for that branch of his. I pray to God he doesn't pick up one of the pieces of firewood…

I earn several slaps to the head for that, as well as a punch to the stomach. I almost throw up, but I've got dry heaves. I thought 'Tobias' wanted to let me eat…

I guess I never got that far.

The man is still furious, screaming and raging. I try to curl into a ball on the floor, but all he does is set my chair upright and stares me straight in the eye.

"You try that again, and I'll have you, boy," he warns me. "Disrespecting your elders…" What's amazing is that he can literally quote the chapter and verse that that comes from.

I nod, my head swinging like a rag doll. The next thing I see is darkness.


	6. Spencer's Choice

**Are you still with me? Please leave a review if you are... :)**

**Please see disclaimers in Ch 1.**

* * *

Ow…my head…

I force my eyes open and look up. There he is, the man with the stick, yanking my hair as if the fate of my head depends on it.

"_**You ready, boy?"**_ he asks.

Ready? I just woke up! What is he talking about?!

"_**Ready for what?"**_ I ask timidly. After my attempt at the door, I figure it's best not to try and piss him off anymore.

"_**My weakling son believes God gave you to him for a reason,"**_ the man says harshly. _**"Let's see if we're both right."**_

That's why I'm here? Because 'Tobias' thinks God 'gave' me to him? My God. Why _me_? Why not someone _else_?

_But if it were someone else, Spencer, would they have survived this long? _

Who knows.

The man—'Tobias's' father, obviously—suddenly grabs the back of my chair and starts turning it 180 degrees in the other direction.

Towards the stove, where another new pile of fish entrails is merrily sizzling. My nose can't take it anymore, and now I'm facing it…

Towards a small…what looks like a half-room or an old lean-to, which has no firewood or yard utensils cluttering it. What _is_ cluttering it, though, are four laptops, all running brightly, all showing images of people going about their daily lives.

People who don't know they're being watched. Is this how he picked that couple? Or perhaps other victims we don't know about yet? He somehow got into their webcams and 'waited,' just as he's 'waiting' for me now?

I look at the bright screens, and I can think of only two things: _Who are these people? And why has he built a Garcia-like computer room?_

"_**See these vermin?"**_

My eyes blink a little.

"_**Choose one to die. I'll let you choose one to live."**_

Oh, my God. I can't. I can't let him use me like this…

"_**No." **_I've whispered things that came out louder than that.

His face turns angry again. That 'look' is back, though it's tempered. By what, I'm not really sure.

"_**I thought you were supposed to be some kind of 'savior,'" **_he queries. Perhaps _that's_ why he's not striking me yet—he's not entirely sure how it works. Still, though…

"_**You're a sadist in a psychotic break. You won't stop killing; your word's not true," **_I reply. There I go, being all _me_ again. Just once I'd like to turn my giant brain off for a second…

"_**The other heathens are watching,"**_ he says, tapping the digital camcorder he's got shoved in front of me. My mind registers that a minute. He's got this broadcasting? To other people? How many? Is it just to the team, or is this worldwide, like his other post?

"_**Choose the person to die, and I'll say the name and address of the person to be saved." **_He says this as if it's nothing more than a business transaction. I know better. He's trying to use me to 'choose' his victims, making me just as culpable in his 'grand design.'

I can't do it. However…

"_**I won't…choose who gets slaughtered and have you leave their remains behind like a poacher," **_I reply carefully. On the off chance the team _is_ watching, I want them to be able to get a bead on my location. His killing that animal last night certainly helps…

And, about that brain of mine, just about now would be a good time to have it switch off, as he storms over and hoists me out of my seat, pulling on the strap that holds my hands in my lap as tightly as it can stretch. My face is so close to his I can smell his breath—and it's even worse than the fish burning. There's no escaping his wrath now.

He says something, but what I pick up is _**"Can you see I'm not a liar?!"**_

I can't even shake my head to agree with him. He's insane, and sick, but he's no liar, certainly.

"_**Choose someone to die, save a life. Otherwise they're all dead."**_

Christ. This is impossible. I can't save _all _of them, and if I choose no one _everyone_ dies—and that's likely including me.

"_**Fine. But I'll choose who lives." **_

His face relaxes a little. He's appeased. _**"All the same."**_

Oh, I am _so_ going to burn in Hell…

"_**Far…far right screen,"**_ I say, just picking one at random. As promised, the man does say, out loud, who she is and where she lives. Her name is Marilyn. I wonder if they've gotten to her…

Just then she says something on the screen. They've called her. Within seconds her screen goes blank.

At that moment, the man's whole 'being' changes. The cold, harsh man is gone, the studious eyes and calm demeanor of 'Raphael' is back. I ask if that's 'who' I'm with now.

He reassures me, tells me I've done my part. The camera is turned off, throwing me back into my hellish isolation. As he leaves through the door, I realize something.

I have no idea who he's going to kill now.

And, there's this: if I had chosen the person to 'die,' could they have been saved before he got there?

Oh, I am _so_ going to Hell…


	7. Alone

**A new chapter, because I can't sleep. Hope you enjoy...**

**Please see disclaimers in Ch 1.**

* * *

I've never felt this alone in my _life_.

Sure, a lot of my time growing up was spent by myself. There wasn't many people who could _understand_ me, let alone compete with me at some level when it came to intellect. It's the downside of being called a 'genius.'

There were the times I'd have to worry about Mom; about whether she was eating or moving out of bed or even going to teach class so we could pay the electric bill that month. I felt then like there was no other kid like me on the planet—one who was 'raising' their mother instead of the opposite.

But this? This is, without a doubt, the worst.

He's been gone forever. You'd think I'd be happy—he's not _here_, after all, quizzing me or tormenting me or beating me or telling me I have to 'confess' to some real or imagined 'sin' I've supposedly committed.

But I'm not.

Instead, I'm merely existing. Existing in the agony of my physical pain, which is getting worse as the time lapses from hours to days. Existing in emotional torment, as I warily keep watch over the three remaining screens, waiting for 'Raphael' to appear in one of those homes, ready to slaughter unsuspecting people under the guise of 'God's will.'

The crickets are getting louder. Or the cicadas. Maybe both. I can't tell anymore.

I'm staring at the lean-to, the computers, the thin brown walls that isolate me from the rest of the world. I've tried getting a look out of the dirty windows, but aside from thick muddy streaks all I can see is a large tree of some sort and tall grass, as far as my very tired eyes can see.

All I can think is, _My God, I've killed someone. I've sentenced them to death, even if I didn't wield the actual murder weapon._

And then I counter: _And if you hadn't, you'd be dead. You and even __more__ people you couldn't save._

The thought doesn't make things any easier. I've tried pulling on my bonds, but they won't give. I've tried standing up, but I end up falling back into this damned chair every time. I've even thought about tipping the chair again, just to get away from the sight of brown walls and fish guts and despair, but then I remember what happened the last time I tried that.

Even if I managed to do it, I still can't get away. My foot is in no condition to walk. My legs are cramped from sitting so long. I can barely feel my backside anymore. And my head has given up, fading from a dull thud behind my temples to a thick fog with accompanying percussion.

There's also the thought that there is no one looking for me. Maybe everyone thinks I'm dead…

_Stop that,_ I chide myself sternly. _They're still looking. They wouldn't give up. Not ever._

I want so very, very much to believe that, but it's getting harder.

Just then there's a sound that catches my ear: the sound of surprise, of fear, of sheer terror. It's coming from a woman on the third screen—the one who was sipping some sort of red wine. The panic in her eyes is one I know well, and the gentle _shhhh_ she hears is one I've heard before.

It's like a grisly crime scene, unfolding in front of my eyes. The kind where you know what the outcome will be, but you can't bear to take your eyes off of it.

He makes his phone call, the 911 call that will pinpoint his location.

He's holding the point of a carving knife right at her throat.

She doesn't even get the chance to make her defense, or plead for her life. One quick stroke, and it's all over. The man with her—maybe her husband—is felled just as instantly.

I could've saved them. I could have just picked someone to die, hoped that they'd be warned in time.

I could've prevented this.

I look now at the scene 'Raphael' leaves, the wine glasses tipped over, the bodies on the floor, the knife left in plain sight. Two more lives lost, and for _what?_

I could've _saved_ them…

And before I know it, I'm crying. Not just one or two tears trickling down my face, or biting my lips as I try to hold it in.

No. These are huge, heaving, torso-wracking sobs that are escaping from me, one right after the other. My eyes are so wet I can barely see. My stomach hurts from the sorrow and the lack of food. There's a feeling of shame and weakness that engulfs me, and I can't get it to go away.

Why, God?

Why those people?

Why me?

Have I done something to deserve all of this? The torture, the beatings, the anguish?

Am I Job reincarnated, the proverbial 'whipping boy' that needs to swallow the punishments of the world?

There's no way to know.

And all I want to do is cry harder. I can't even put my face in my hands, because of how they're bound. I can't hide my emotion from 'him,' should he come back and see me like this.

I pray to God it's 'Tobias' that returns.

Then again, he might decide to 'help' me again.

And I can't take that either.


	8. Voices

**Thank you for the lovely reviews. And now, the next chapter...**

**Please see disclaimers in Ch 1.**

* * *

I can't take my eyes off of that damned screen. The one that continuously reminds me just how much of a 'sinner' I really am. Those two people, alive, happy, all smiles just a few minutes before, now lying slaughtered in their own living room like sacrifices for a sick man's altar.

It's my fault. I should have chosen the person to die. I was able to get a message out once—I could have done it again.

_But he probably wouldn't have told you who it was,_ I counter myself. _And they'd still be dead._

I hate it when I'm right.

I'm so tired. I ache, from my forehead all the way down to my toes. It's a crushing sort of ache, the kind where you just want to lie flat on your back with your eyes closed and hope to God it just goes away. There's a part of me that wants to trade places with that woman in the screen; the end of my torment for her continued journey through life.

And then there's the part of me that says that _only weak people chicken out like that._

The wish for the agony to end is trumped by a desperate will to live.

It feels like hours since I've stood upright. I can barely feel my legs anymore, save for the constant pain in my right foot. Thousands of pins and needles have invaded them, keeping me from sleep.

My arms ache, from being held in one place for so long. There's a piece of hair that's been swinging in my eyes, adding fuel to the blinding headache I can't get rid of. The fact that I can't even touch my own face is a sobering reminder that I am not at liberty in this place.

So, here I sit, waiting.

Waiting for a voice to come through the door.

Waiting for someone to strike me, in places I can't defend.

Waiting for someone to figure out where I am.

Waiting for a deranged man to finally kill me.

At least one of these things will happen.

The screen shifts. There's movement; the catcalls of voices that are so close but so very far away. Maybe now they'll see what I've done. What I've _allowed_ to happen.

I focus in on the voices. There are so many. Most of them are of people I don't know, people walking in on an even more gruesome scene than the first one I saw two days ago.

Then there's a voice I recognize. _Hotch._ He's being as through as ever, but I can't make out what he's saying. I'd know that voice anywhere, though. It's the same one that tried to help me qualify for my carry permit. The same one that convinced a man to let me shoot him. The same one that can make me feel like I've accomplished something good and yet show me how to improve all at once.

God, I miss that voice. How long have I been here?

The screen shifts again, and now instead of a room full of people in uniforms I see only one face. I'd know that face anywhere, even after a lifetime of things I'd like to forget. It's one of the very few things in my life that's helped bring a measure of both pride and joy to my life.

It's the face that spotted me in a crowd of five hundred and singled me out to answer a question.

It's the face that convinced me there was more to life than what could be found in a book.

It's the face that always is patient with me, and yet does not hesitate to tell me when I'm wrong. It teaches. It tries to follow and understand.

And now it's speaking right to me.

"_**Reid, if you're watching: You are not responsible for this. You understand? He's using God to justify murder. You are stronger than this. He **__**cannot **__**break you."**_

And like that, he's gone.

_Come back! _I find myself almost screaming. _Please, come back!_

It's then I realize just how isolated I really am. I'm so desperate to see another living soul that I'm almost crying out to an image on a computer screen.

Dear God, how far have I really fallen?

I stare at the screen, letting the message sink in. Gideon's right—the man who killed those people has absolutely no remorse about it because he truly _believes_ he's doing the right thing; an act sanctioned by God.

But it's not. It's simply an act of power and control, coupled with violence and crazed devotion to an ideal.

Because I know this, I'm already stronger that he can be. I know the difference between _being _moral and _inflicting _morals.

There's footsteps. They're slow, and careful. They're taking their time as they cross onto something solid outside and come near the door.

Involuntarily, I hold my breath. Please, God, don't let it be the man with the stick. Please…

The door opens.

"Hey," the man says, in that soft, gentle tone. He walks over to me, giving me the once-over. He kneels down and once again pulls his belt off, sliding it around my upper arm.

"_**Tobias," **_I say, wanting to be certain who I'm talking to.

He nods. _**"I'm sorry; I had to leave for a while…"**_

Now's my chance. Only 'Tobias' would be receptive to letting me go—the other two 'entities' would find some reason to make me suffer even more before they kill me.

"_**You could leave again, and…you could take me with you,"**_ I ask, the hope nearly pouring out of my voice.

He's shaking his head. No. No, don't do that…

"_**My father would be angry,"**_ he replies, tightening the damned belt even tighter that before.

Dear God. What must life have been like for him? For 'Tobias,' the 'true' personality of the three?

"_**Not if he can't find us,"**_ I counter. Please, dear God, have pity on me…I can tell you really don't want to do this…

"_**My father always finds me."**_ Now he's shoving another needle into that vial again…

"_**We can. I promise, if you tell me where we are, my friends, they'll come and they'll save us." **_Well, me anyway, but honestly I truly feel sorry for 'Tobias.'

My eyes can't leave the needle. It picks up, heads straight for my arm. I can't bat it away, I can't force him to stop, I can't defend myself from what he's about to do…

Then, all of a sudden, he stops. _**"Tell me it doesn't make it better?" **_ he asks.

And that's just it. I can't. As much as I hate the thought of that poison being forced into my veins, as much as I want to scream _it doesn't_, I can't. The rational and moral part of me says it's not real, the feeling he's trying to give me.

But the physical part of me remembers the escape. The freedom from the pain, the torment, the anguish—even the escape from the prison I sit bound and isolated in.

I can't answer.

I can see the needle drawing closer. _No, _I think. _No, please, not this…_


	9. Silencing the Message

**Hey all. Please remember to read Ch 8!**

**Please see disclaimers in Ch. 1.**

* * *

The walls are white again. I know this room; I've cleaned it a thousand times if I've done it once.

I'm short again, the view towards the bed is nearly parallel with my line of sight. And there she is, sleeping again. It's not good for her, all this sleep…

I remember going over and pulling the shade. Bright light fills the tiny room, and she wakes up. _**"Mom?"**_ I hear myself say, in that too-high voice.

"_**What is it, Spencer?"**_

"_**It's the middle of the afternoon." **_I remember this incident. It was closer to five o'clock—she'd been sleeping all day.

"_**I've been reading."**_ I remember the books, dozens of them, lying about on her bed.

"_**The doctor says you have to get out of bed. That you need exercise." **_I remember wanting to pull her out of bed and make her walk around the block or something—just so she leaves this room. She hasn't left it since Tuesday, and I think that was a Friday…

"_**Well, that's because his idea of good literature is 'Our Bodies, Ourselves,'**_ she counters.

Now, I know that's not true. I've spoken with her doctor on literature once or twice, and he does read more than that. However…

"_**Well, he's your doctor!"**_

"_**He's a Neanderthal." **_As if that settles the matter. And it does. I mean, I was eleven years old. I might have been intellectually capable, but I'm still a kid who can't make her do anything.

I remember thinking _if she wants to stay there, let her. I'll worry about dinner later._

"_**Where are you going?"**_

I tell her I'm going next door, just to go outside for awhile. I remember the neighbor—one of the few people who didn't torment me though childhood.

"_**Come here. Let me read to you."**_

I hesitated. I really want to go outside…but then I see the look on her face. The one that reminds me of what Mom was like before all this.

How could I say 'no' to that?

I remember her letting me pick the book—Proust, I think it was. She was happy with it. She started to read…something about smell…

Wait…where's she going? The walls are closing in…

And then I'm back. The bright white walls evaporate, leaving me with dark brown ones full of fish smell and despair. I'm so tired. I'm so tired. I look over towards 'whoever' is with me now, and 'they're' sitting in front of the computer, doing something.

Garcia would know. She'd know what 'they' were doing. I wish I could ask her…

My eyes start to close. _No,_ I think to myself. _I can't fall asleep. I might never wake up._

But is that such a bad thing? I ask myself.

_Enough of that. Mom needs you. The others need you. Taking the easy way out solves nothing, Spencer._

But it'll be over, I counter. The pain, the torment—it'll all be over…

_Weakling._

I find myself staring into my lap. Is there another way out of this?

Just then there's some kind of buzzer going off. It's faint, just loud enough to be heard.

I can hear him screaming. Something's wrong…

"_**They're trying to silence my message!" **_he says, looking at me as if I'm the reason why.

Oh, Christ. No. No no no no no…

"_**I can't control what they do…I'm not with them, I'm with you!" **_I reply, hoping beyond all hope he believes me.

"_**Really?" **_He presses a button and instantly the little lean-to is filled with images of Gideon, talking to me through the camera.

Oh, God. No. No, I didn't…I _couldn't…_

"_**I have no idea what he's talking about…" **_I say, praying that this one time he believes me.

"_**You're a liar!"**_

I'm sure my face is telling him he's right. And he is. I know full well what Gideon was trying to say.

He's coming closer. My eyes are searching for that damned stick again…

He notices something, and then pulls my arm out. There, for all the world to see, are the track marks that 'Tobias' left. _They weren't my doing, _I want to shout. _Look at me—how could I possibly do that to myself in my condition?!_

"_**You're pitiful! Just like my son…"**_

I'm beginning to understand why the real Tobias probably turned to drugs. It's no wonder to me that _this_ is what he became, though I am amazed that he's been able to function this long.

And before I know it, I'm crying again. This time I don't care if he sees me or not. I _am_ pitiful—bound, abused, drugged, tortured at the whim of a madman. I just want it to stop…

"_**Confess."**_

Oh, no—not this again. _**"No."**_

The punch connects. I'm surprised my head wasn't knocked off.

"_**Confess."**_

"_**I haven't done anything!" **_I cry out.

Another blow, again to the head. _**"Confess," **_he insists.

I manage to shake my head, a fraction of an inch. _**"Tobias, help me," **_I call out, hoping I can bring that 'entity' forth and end the violent abuse.

"_**He can't help you—he's weak," **_the man with the stick proclaims. _**"Confess."**_

"_**No," **_I answer, the word coming out as a strangled squeak. I know he turned on the camera before he began beating me. Is someone watching?

Suddenly the chair topples over, my head striking the worn wooden floor. My legs are splayed out over the sides, like a rag doll carelessly tossed in a corner. It's getting harder to breathe. My chest is constricting, my breaths are getting shorter, my head keeps hitting the floor like a paddle ball…

"_**That's the devil vacating your body," **_the man says.

The last thing I can think of—other than wondering when I'm going to run out of air—is this: Is someone out there watching me die?


	10. Choose

**I'm doing this from memory, so I hope this one's accurate. Hope you enjoy...**

**Please see disclaimers in Ch. 1.**

* * *

Spots. Bright, white spots. Pain. Air. I'm drinking air into my lungs so fast I'm coughing like a chain smoker.

I'm alive. But how?

I'm lying backwards on the floor, the chair still firmly planted underneath me. My eyes are beginning to focus—there's the same brown walls, the same brown floor…but wait, what's that?

Something solid. A stone. Something…Jackson. Dates. I think an etching…

A headstone.

A _gravestone._

My eyes focus elsewhere. I don't want to look at it too much. It's a clue, and a reminder…I'm not out of this yet.

"_**You came back to life,"**_ he says. This voice is calmer, methodical. I look up and those eyes are back—the ones that are always searching, always wondering, always studying.

"_**Raphael," **_I reply.

"_**There can only be one reason," **_he says.

Of course there's only one reason. _**"I was given CPR?"**_

"_**There are no coincidences." **_Medicine is a coincidence? I know it was around even in the Bible…

"_**How many members are on your team?" **_

Now why the hell would you want to know that? I think.

"_**Seven."**_

And now he's quoting Revelations again, something about archangels and horsemen. I vaguely remember the quote—bottom line: not looking good for me.

He lifts me back upright, as if steadying a target for practice.

"_**Choose one to die."**_

_Are you serious?! _

"_**No."**_

Now he's going into his pocket…he's pulling something out…

Oh, hell. Not that. Please, _anything _but that…

He loads the bullet, spins the chamber, levels his 'instrument' again merely inches from my temple.

He 'fires.' I can hear everything—the motion of the chamber, the hammer falling onto the empty hole where a bullet should be, the sound of my breath growing louder, my heart racing faster…

"_**Choose."**_

Christ, he's serious. He's not gonna stop, not until I tell him to kill someone…

"_**Kill me." **_What the hell—I'm here anyway. Outside of the people behind that little camera, there's no one who will notice I'm gone very much. One of them will explain things to Mom…I hope.

"_**I thought you said you weren't one of them…"**_

Well, yeah, I did, but you've got a loaded revolver pointed at me. Historically, people will say just about _anything_ to avoid being shot.

"_**I lied." **_There, now, you see? Now you even have a 'reason' to kill me, and spare them…

"_**There are six other members. Choose one to die."**_

For the love of God…I'm offering to let you kill _me_, like you've been trying to do for so long, and you're not all over this?! Why does someone else have to die?

And then, it hits me…it's about _me_ having to choose.

Well, I've got news for you…

"_**No."**_

He levels the revolver again. _**"Choose."**_

"_**No." **_Maybe this time he'll finally shoot me.

He 'fires.' The sounds get louder with every shot. I can't drink air in fast enough.

"_**Choose."**_

"_**I won't do it."**_

He 'fires' again. Dear God, when will this nightmare be over?

"_**Life is a choice." **_

Now that's the most bizarre thing I've heard in days. He wants me to kill people by 'choosing' them, all so I can save my life?

"_**No." **_I think quick about everyone behind that camera. I'm doing the right thing. I'm doing the right thing, not calling out…

He 'fires' again. Eventually, my luck will run out.

My eyes dance around the room, and they fall onto that headstone.

Headstone…

"_**Choose."**_

Who would get such a message? Gideon? Morgan?

No. I know. I know, and I'm sorry…

"_**I choose…Aaron Hotchner."**_

He lowers the revolver. His eyes are demanding an explanation.

"_**He's a classic narcissist. Thinks he's better than everyone else on the team." **_I quote 'Scripture' to drive the point home, and it works.

But I know better. Hotch isn't a narcissist. Sometimes he's a little too driven, and definitely a workaholic, but _never_ a narcissist. I pray to God they heard me, figured out exactly what I 'said'…

'Raphael' raises the revolver. What the hell—I just gave you what you wanted…!

He raises it, slightly higher than my forehead.

And fires.

The sound is loud enough to deafen small children. It's a sobering thought, the idea that a tiny piece of metal was just inches from separating me from my life.

Now satisfied, 'Raphael' returns his instrument to his pocket, turns on his heel, and leaves.

And all I can do is stare.


	11. The Crushing Weight of Sorrow

**Another part...**

**Please see disclaimers in Ch 1.**

* * *

There's a part of me that's slowly dying.

Not a physical part, something that can be ignored or amputated or removed to save the rest of the whole.

No.

Something _inside _of me is dying.

Dying because of those murders, in that living room—the ones I drove 'Raphael' towards.

Dying because every slap, every punch, every insistence that I am worthless and weak connects with a part of my psyche—the one that says _I'm just like him. I'm just like all of those who came before me, those that took the abuse and said nothing._

Dying because I cannot stop 'Tobias' from 'saving' me with that vile poison of his—the one that allows me just the briefest of escapes from a dark, dismal reality.

It's the same part of me that fears the man's return, covered in the blood of a person I looked up to, a friend, a colleague, someone important to me.

It's the same part of me that realizes that eventually I'll be right there with him, left on display for all the world to see my perceived 'faults' as _he_ sees them…

And there I go again, crying. Even my tears can't wash away the part of me that's dying; can't fill up the giant hole in what is my conscience. I want to wrap my arms around me, to hold something, to know that though I might be alone, I am not without something to pour my sorrow into.

But I can't. I can't lift up my hands and bury my face in them. I can't clutch something in my arms, squeezing the life out of it as I drown in grief. I can't lie on the floor, curled into a ball, praying to God that finally, _finally _I be allowed just to mercifully die.

My breaths are growing shorter. My head is still spinning from the unconsciousness I suffered, and there's an ache right in the very front of my forehead from crying. My ears are still ringing form the sound of the bullet that could have ended all this.

Why, God?

Why should I live, while so many others die?

What makes me so special?

What makes me more important than the others that have died on my account?

There's no answer. What right do I have to question a design not of my own making?

But then, of whose making was it? 'Raphael's'? The man with the stick? God? Some other deity? Or was it just an accident of time, space, happenstance and fate?

It's impossible to say.

I think now about Hotch, how I've sent a madman straight towards him. I know he's capable, and that everyone else will make sure nothing happens to him, but what if they can't? What if 'Raphael's' 'instrument of God' manages to do to Hotch what it hasn't yet done to me?

I don't think I could live with myself. I couldn't look Mrs. Hotchner in the eye. I couldn't bear the thought of his son growing up as I did, with no one to tell him what good his father had brought to the world, and to all of us who knew him in it.

And now I'm crying harder. I don't think I have any tears left, but my stomach is clawing at itself in grief. Or maybe that's because I haven't eaten in nearly three days. Either or, it doesn't matter.

I would give almost _anything_ for a sip of water. My throat is so dry...

Just then the door creaks. I immediately try to compose myself, try not to show how 'weak' and 'sinful' I've been.

I can't survive another beating. Not like the last time.

The man steps in. I can hear him. I can't bear to look. God, I wish this would all end…

Something presses against my lips. It's hard, hard with something wet on it...

_Water._ My God, could it be…?

I manage to draw the water out of the container. I barely look at it. It's odd, not actually holding the cup myself but drinking out of it nonetheless. It's as if I'm a child, or some sort of very smart invalid.

There's only one 'person' who would be kind enough to let me have water…

"_**Tobias,"**_ I say, knowing that this time my identification is right.

He nods, that lost, forlorn look still washed over his face. He glances at the cup, pressing it father into my mouth. I take another swallow, feeling like I've struck gold as the liquid washes down my parched throat and falls into my empty stomach.

"_**Thank you,"**_ I say, hoping I can take another sip. He holds the cup out, but it's hard for me to get at the water inside of it where it's located.

And then it hits me. It's because of 'Tobias' that I'm still alive. 'Raphael' and the man with the stick would have just left me dead on the floor when I fell unconscious. I think I might have _died_…

"_**You saved my life." **_I tell him, and I can feel a wash of an appreciative smile fall over my face.

As my face brightens, his noticeably falls. _**"I'm sorry."**_

"_**Why?"**_ The question is genuine. If he's sorry, why did he do it?

"_**He'll win, in the end." **_He sets the cup down, and reaches into his pocket.

I think I know what he means. In the end, 'his father' will win. In the end, 'his father' will kill me.

He thinks he's only prolonged my suffering, the way his own has been.

I can feel his hands wrapping that damned belt around my arm again. I know what he 'plans' to do to help 'ease' that suffering just a little bit more…

"_**Tobias, I need to ask you something. It's important."**_

He stops what he's doing, and looks at me. It's the first time _any_ of the 'entities' has actually acknowledged me; has allowed me to speak without being spoken _to._

"_**Are we in a cemetery?"**_

The sight of his slight nod is the most wonderful thing I've seen in days.

"_**I was right," **_I hear myself say, almost half-whispering the words as they escape my lips.

"_**I used to come here to get high," **_he explains in that gentle tone of his. _**"No one bothers you here."**_

That simple statement explains so much. How 'Raphael' and the man with the stick knew they could do all those horrible things to me without anyone noticing. How they could let me scream and cry out, with only God to hear me. How they could hide form the prying eyes and the searchlights of the force desperately searching for us, each for different reasons.

I watch as he taps the needle. I don't fight him anymore, though I wish with all my might that he'll think better of it and stop. The escape is only momentary, the feeling of calmness and euphoria only brought on by the demon of addiction that is not so easy to ignore.

I wish…I wish…I _wish…_


	12. Going Away

**Hey all. Please remember to read and review Ch. 11!**

**Please see disclaimers in Ch. 1.**

* * *

I know this room. It's a room I'd rather not see.

My mother's books, strewn all over the bookshelves, the desk, even the floor. Hundreds of papers and notes littering the spaces the massive volumes don't take up.

And in the center of the whirlwind is my mother, busy working on her latest 'essay' or 'thesis.' She hasn't actually _taught_ a class in two years; not since she 'slept' through about half a semester and the university had to refund everyone's tuition because of it. It took every persuasive bone I had (which wasn't much) to convince the president there to 'retire' her rather than let her go—mostly because I knew her insurance would need to carry her at some point, until I got myself a job to do that for her. I was sixteen, and worried about Mom's future rather than my own.

I was lucky. They 'retired' her, but on paper gave her disability benefits.

The next two years were a mess. I'd taken my own classes, finished up two of my three doctorates, and still managed to find ways to go home at intervals to make sure Mom was eating, getting out of bed, doing something other than 'reading.' It's a wonder I got all that accomplished without losing my own mind, but, still, this is Mom—the person who didn't abandon me, except when her mind finally failed her. It wasn't by choice.

Finally I'd managed to take a seminar on psychological studies, and _that_ was where I met Gideon. Five hundred people in the lecture hall, and the man managed to answer every question I had—and there were a lot of them. Afterward, he'd asked the professors hosting the seminar to have me come back to see him. I remember being surprised at the invitation—I mean, who would want to speak to _me,_ after all—and the more we talked, the more I became convinced that there was a place for someone like me, and it was in Virginia.

But then there was Mom. She didn't take change well, never did…

And there was the fact she was getting worse. I'd had to take at least two of my classes as independent studies that year, just so I could be home to look after her. It wasn't something most of the faculty was willing to allow, no matter my situation or my capability level.

I remember thinking that going to Virginia was something _I_ wanted, something that would make things better—better for me, better for others, and yes—even better for Mom. Her insurance could barely cover her visits to the doctors and psychiatrists; long-term private care was simply out of the question. I couldn't bear the thought of Mom living in a public asylum, being left to her own devices because one overworked nurse was responsible for twenty patients even though they would _try_ to spend as much time on her as possible.

I remember thinking _if I go to Virginia and work there, I can afford to make sure that Mom's taken care of. I can't take care of her myself, not and work too..._

The next two months I spent researching every private hospital in Las Vegas. Bennington was the only one that came close. It reminded me of a cross between our house and a large university—one that had dozens of psychiatrists for _every floor_ as well as a nurse for every three patients. It was perfect.

It was also the most expensive. I remember thinking that I'd better get this job out there in Virginia, or else.

I made the arrangements the month before my birthday. I got a few looks when they found out about that, but then I had to explain I wasn't eighteen and she'd resist going into care. Then things were more receptive.

I remember that birthday. I spent it with Mom, who was totally focused on a volume of Arthurian legends. A little out of her specialty, but she was determined to learn about Guinevere and figure out whether she was to blame for the fall of Camelot. I listened to her read parts aloud to me and bought myself a cake. Chocolate. With coconut frosting.

The next day, the doorbell rang. I knew exactly who it was.

I let them in, and led them to my mother's office. There she was, still poring over those volumes.

She looked up at me; saw there was 'company.' We hadn't had a lot of that in about seven years.

"_**What are those men doing here, Spencer?"**_

_It's for the best,_ I had to keep telling myself. _**"They're from a hospital—they're here to help."**_

As expected, she scoffed. _**"I don't need any help. And they can't be here without permission—tell them, Spencer."**_

"_**I called them."**_

It's that look—the one of her looking as if I'd betrayed her. Was she aware of just how far she'd fallen? Did she know she'd gotten worse?

It's also that sound. I had made my mother cry. It's a sound I've never gotten over.

The men from the hospital explain the situation to her; they're actually _better_ at it than I thought. They explain that since I'm eighteen, I can make decisions for her in her interest. I'm really glad they don't come out and say that she's mentally incapacitated, hence my ability to make this decision.

That look. She still has that look—the one of sadness, of realization that things aren't going to be as they always were. _**"But I wanna stay here!" **_I remember her crying. _**"These are my things…this is my life…"**_

"_**I'm sorry," **_I remember saying. And I am. I am truly sorry it's come to this. I didn't want this, not the schizophrenia, not the devolvement, not the realization that I was sending her away…

"_**Spencer, don't do this to me…!"**_

And all I could say was 'I'm sorry.'

They took her with them, gently as they could. I was grateful for that. They took her as gently as they could. It wasn't about force. It wasn't about hurting her.

I was trying to help her. The kind of help she needed, I couldn't give her anymore.

But still, after the front door closed, after the van had pulled out of the driveway, it hit me.

I was alone.

Completely alone.

And for the first time, it hits me. There's no one left. There's no one to care whether I come home or not. There's no one left who knows any of my history, who would read to me when I was sick or share a story about something peculiar that had happened, either centuries ago or the previous afternoon.

I remember standing in my mother's office, and just sobbing.


	13. The Spanish Moss Tree

**Because I'm kind of leery about ending this thing on Ch 13, I've got one more in store for you. Stay tuned for the conclusion...**

**Please see disclaimers in Ch 1. **

* * *

"_**I'm sorry. I'm so sorry…"**_

"_**Sorry for what, boy?"**_

I know that voice.

"_**I-I sent her away…"**_

"_**Who?"**_

Why am I telling him this? It's not as if he cares.

"_**M-My mom," **_I say, the sobs beginning to subside a little. _**"I couldn't--I couldn't help her…"**_

"_**Is that a confession?"**_

Yeah. Sure. I guess. I can feel my head nodding back and forth, like the head of one of those little dolls Garcia has lying all over her desk. _**"I confess."**_

Maybe now he'll just kill me. Slice me to ribbons with a knife. Shoot me point-blank with that damned revolver of his, never one feeling the smallest bit of remorse.

But his voice never rises. It's calm, not like 'Raphael's,' but calm nonetheless.

"_**You know your Bible. Exodus 21:17."**_

What's sad is that I actually _do_ know this one. _**"And he that curseth his father—or his mother—shall surely be put to death."**_ Apparently liars don't rate a death sentence in the Bible. Explains why he waited until this came up. Then again, there's a lot of seemingly 'trivial' things in the Bible that come with a death penalty. I think the writers from that era had a little too much bloodlust in them for their own good.

So, this is it. What's it gonna be?

He leans over, pulls something from his pocket. _Not the vial, _I think. _Please, no more…no more of that…_

What he pulls out is a small silver key. He unlocks my hands from the steel bindings that have held them for days now.

My mind is reeling. It still hurts, too. After all that—the beatings, the torture, the pain and anguish he's caused—all it took was _that_ to convince him to let me go?

He stands up, looks down at me as if from on the Mount. _**"Grab a shovel," **_he says, as if he's doing nothing more than going to till a field.

I know better.

I stare out, past the confines of my chair. It's a scary thought, moving from this spot. On this chair, I know what will happen. I know what to expect, for the most part.

Out there, I know what will happen too. Out there, he's going to kill me. And as much as I want for all of this to be over, there's still a part of me that's demanding that I don't give up. That only the weak roll over and die…

"Move," he says again, his voice not rising. There's a quality about it though, one that could even frighten Hotch or Morgan, I think. And they don't scare easy.

I slowly pick myself up off the chair, the one constant throughout all of this. I feel as if I'm leaving my best friend. That when they come to find me, all everyone will find is an empty chair where I once sat.

He pulls me the rest of the way up, forces a shovel into my barely registering hands. It's strange to actually hold onto something, after being able to grasp _nothing_ for so long.

"Move," he orders again, and prods me along at the edge of a carving knife—the same knife he used to kill that couple on the screen. They'll have no trouble linking it to my murder, and Hotch's, and the couple's…

I walk through the threshold of the tiny shack; breathe in the first breath of fresh air that I've been allowed in so long. It smells like heaven. It's clean, cold, crisp—just like it is during a sharp winter snap in Nevada.

God, I want to go home. I want to see the desert just one more time. I drink in the cold air, not caring that it's making me cold and I'm starting to shiver. All I can think is _it doesn't smell like fish. Thank God for that—it doesn't smell like fish._

"Boy, I said _move_. _Now_." That voice again. I'd give just about anything to never hear it again.

I take my first few steps. My foot is in agony. I can barely lift my legs, they've atrophied so much. It's a wonder I don't fall over into the soft earth, and just lie there, waiting to die.

"Come on, move, I said," the man with the stick demands. The knife point nips a little into my back.

I move, very slowly, across the tall grass; towards rows and rows of old headstones that look to be in various stages of weather. I wonder just how old these remains are?

And will I be the first to be buried here in this decade? This month? This week?

I nearly trip over a rock. I stumble; fall flat on my face near an old tree covered with the remains of last year's Spanish moss.

"Keep moving," the voice orders me. "Can't dig through roots."

I try to stand. My legs won't let me.

"I can't…I can't get up…" I hear myself pleading. Come on, just shoot me or carve me up and be done.

"Then crawl. Keep moving." The flash of moonlight onto the flat of the knife is incentive. That part of me still refuses to give up.

As I put out my arm in front of me and pull, I think to myself that I've fallen even worse than Mom has. Her body hasn't given up, only her mind. The opposite is true with me. My mind is fine. But I'm reduced to being forced to crawl on the ground in order to reach my own grave.

Finally he finds a spot that's 'suitable.' He stands under the Spanish moss tree, tells me to pick up the shovel and start digging. I look at the tiny thing in my hands, knowing full well it would take the better part of a month to dig a hole large enough to fit me inside.

Then there's the problem of my legs. I can't stand on them.

"I..I can't stand…"

"Doesn't matter. Dig."

_This is insanity personified,_ I think. I take the shovel and start to dig. I manage to pull up enough dirt to pick up with my hands with the small spade. I think that digging the hole with my hands themselves would be faster, but I'm not interested in _faster…_

"_**I'm gonna bury you alive in there," **_he informs me, as if this is breaking news. I'm actually not surprised. _**"Give you time to think about what you've done…"**_

Time?! You think I haven't thought about 'what I've done' every moment of my life for the last seven years?! That I've agonized over my decision to put Mom in private care? You think I _wanted _ to do that to her?!

"_**I know what I've done,"**_ I say hastily, trying to appease him by attempting to dig up another pitiful pile of earth out of my tiny hole. As it is, I could bury a toe in it. It seems even in Georgia, they have a slight frost that makes digging in the ground an interesting experience.

"_**Don't talk back to me." **_Yes, _sir._ _**"Dig."**_

There's a crunching sound that's growing. _It's the sound of the shovel hitting the solid dirt,_ I think.

Now even my ears are playing tricks on me.


	14. The Things We Didn't Say

**Please see disclaimers in Ch 1.**

* * *

I can't do it.

I can't dig my own grave, and not because it's just wrong on so many levels. My arms literally can't get the right amount of force behind the shovel. I can't stand long enough to put my legs into it. All I can do it take out tiny piles of earth, one at a time—enough that I could have picked up the dirt in my hands.

"_**Dig faster!" **_he yells, as if he's got someplace to be. What, killing me isn't going to be the highlight of your week?

Then I think about that a minute. His delusion is that he's on a 'mission from God.' He's not going to be happy until he kills everyone he knows. And hundreds of people he doesn't.

Still, I can't oblige him.

"_**I'm not strong enough," **_I say, my voice nearly at a whimper. I wonder why. I've been abused, starved, tortured, and only allowed three swallows of water in as many days. No one can go on to dig the Grand Canyon in a microsecond after that—I don't care _who_ you are.

"_**You're all weak,"**_ he snaps, striding over as he tosses his overcoat on the ground. He grabs the shovel and begins to dig. Something catches me eye, though…it's bright…

And then I realize. _Flashlights. _They're here!

Now if only I can keep his attention away from them…

My hands hits something soft. It's the coat.

_The coat_.

I reach in, know that it's in there _somewhere_…

Bingo.

I pull out the revolver, level it straight at his chest. I don't care if my aim's a little off, or if I don't have the sights set right—what matters is, _can I make the shot?_

He looks at me, surprised, but that surprise quickly turns back into that steel-like determination. He levels the knife as if it's a sword in a age-old duel of honor.

"_**Only one bullet in that gun, boy…"**_

But one is all it takes. I stare straight at him, and pull the trigger, hoping to God that it's the right shot.

It is.

There are voices now, some that even know my name. It's not important at the moment. I can't let him get back up to hurt me, to hurt the others coming…

As I crawl over there, I notice that I've really made it count. The bullet went straight into his chest, buried somewhere near his left ventricle. It's a fatal shot, but one that will give him a few minutes. I immediately grab hold of the carving knife and toss it aside. If 'the man with the stick' is gonna kill me, he's gonna have to do it with his bare hands…

"_**You killed him,"**_ a voice says—a gentle one full of awe. His breaths are growing more forced.

"_**Tobias," **_I say. It makes sense that at this, the time of his passing, the 'true' entity of the three would make his final appearance.

He looks at me with those eyes; those warm, kind eyes that tell me that he'd never hurt anyone—at least, not when he was 'himself.' I think about what his upbringing at the hands of his father must have been, and how it could have destroyed this gentle man so horribly.

"_**Do you think I'll get to see my Mom again?"**_ he whispers, his voice growing weaker.

I can't help but feel sorry for this man. After all he's done, to me and to those other people, there's a part of me that realizes that behind it all was a very sick and delusional person that created the monster everyone else will remember.

This part, though, the 'true' Tobias—that will be hard for me to forget.

"_**I'm sorry," **_I tell him. I can't answer to that, honestly. I'd like to believe he will, someday—the part of his soul that's his, anyway.

His eyes lighten, and a look of peace washes over his face. Whatever his sins, or his crimes, he will pay for them elsewhere, in a world where there is no more pain.

I, however, have a _long_ climb ahead of me.

I can't take my eyes off him, even after I know he's dead—not even when a pair of hands starts gently lifting me up. _**"Reid?" **_a voice asks softly.

I look up. I know that voice. It isn't possible…is it?

But yet, there he is, standing there, giving me the once over, the concern evident on his usually unreadable face. _**"Are you all right?"**_

I grab the man and hold on to him, as though he'll evaporate if I let go. _**"I knew you'd understand," **_I say as Hotch allows me to hug him, for a few minutes anyway.

I'm standing now, though I'm not sure how. My foot is killing me. I nearly fall over, and I fall into another pair of waiting arms—these are smaller, and grip _me_ as though I might evaporate.

"_**I am **__**so**__** sorry,"**_ the arms say. They're making it hard to breathe a little.

"_**It's okay. It's not your fault,"**_ I try to reassure her. And it isn't. It really _was_ fifty-fifty odds, and I just came up short this time. Plus, running off into that field without backup wasn't one of my brighter moves…

Another set of hands gently prizes me from her grip, tries to steady me as I attempt taking steps instead of falling on my face. As I turn I see a face that looks about to cry. In fact, I think I saw light flash on a tear track rolling down his cheek.

I do the honorable thing, and pretend not to notice. After all, it's an unwritten rule that Derek Morgan doesn't cry.

"_**Come on. Let's get you out of here,"**_ the hands holding me up say. God, it's good to hear Gideon's voice again. It's good to hear _anyone's _voice again.

I take a few steps, then stop. Gideon stops too. I get the feeling no one's leaving me alone after this—not _ever._

"_**Could—Could I have a minute alone?"**_ I ask. Gideon looks at me, then must figure _well, what can it hurt?_

He takes a few steps over towards everyone else, who're heading back to the shack. I carefully make my way towards the corpse of 'Tobias,' kneel down, taking in that peaceful expression one more time.

_He's the lucky one,_ I think. _For him, it's over._

I find myself absent-mindedly fishing something out of his pocket.

He had two of them, the sneaky bastard.

I can't let them see. I can't let them know what happened to me. If they find out I was drugged, they'll toss me out of Quantico for sure.

And I can't have that.

Besides, it's not like I want to use them.

It's not.

"Reid!" a voice calls out, worried.

"I'm coming," I say, now standing after having hidden the little vials in my pocket.

I just hope they thought to bring my bag…

* * *

**And that's it. I've done the hard part. And I'm pretty pleased with the result. I hope you all enjoyed it too. :)**


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